Instinct
by tearsofamiko
Summary: When others run from the danger, he runs to it with open arms, inviting it to take a swing. ONE-SHOT


Title: Instinct

Author: Tearsofamiko

Rating: K

Disclaimer: I own nothing about the NCIS series, its characters or plotlines. Why rub it in?

Spoilers: _Model Behavior_

Summary: When others run from the danger, he runs to it with open arms, inviting it to take a swing.

A/N: Shameless quote theivery; all dialogue comes straight from the episode.

.:::.

He can see it unfolding in Interrogation, can see the Marine slowly falling apart but he's not sure why. He's alert, though, standing straight and still at the glass, closer to the door than he had been before. The move isn't even conscious, just an instinctive reaction as he watches the Marine's agitation and Ziva's feigned disregard. Deep down, he realizes it's the slight tension in his partner's shoulders that has him on edge, but the thought is only vague, sliding away before he really acknowledges it.

When McMannis flips the table, he's through the door without conscious thought, though he's got the presence of mind not to slam into Interrogation. He slides swiftly in and shuts the door, looking calmly into wild, watery eyes. He lets his hands swing to his sides, his hands open, his posture loose and relaxed.

"I believe Officer David asked you to sit down," he mentions, the adrenaline he's feeling making his voice sound slightly strained, the words a bit too fast for the calm attitude he's feigning.

"You did this to me! You tried to destroy me!" McMannis roars between pants, his face splotchy red, the veins and tendons in his neck standing out.

Some instinct forces his head down as the Marine slings the chair in his direction. It impacts the wall barely above his left shoulder and he catches a glimpse of Ziva's eyes, dark with some unrecognizable emotion, as he ducks out of the way. He steps sideways as McMannis makes a move toward the door, blocking the way out. For his troubles, he gets a shoulder in his solar plexus and it drives the air out of his body in one great whoosh. His knees buckle and he knows a moment of panic as his vision darkens and his lungs cry for air. Distantly he feels Ziva explode into action, her Mossad instincts and training allowing her to catch the crazed Marine and plant him on his back in seconds. His pride wails at her triumph, but he's finally able to draw breath again, drinking it in in great gulps as he forces himself across the room to help her restrain the now-sobbing man.

Her dark eyes meet his over the prostrate soldier and he reads concern in that liquid gaze as it slides over his body, taking in his rumpled shirt and jacket, his strained expression and tense shoulders as he tries to breathe normally through the ache in his chest. He's not sure quite how he feels about her scrutiny, whether it's irritating or endearing. Her gaze is magnetic, though, and he has to force himself to break the contact, despite his knee still firmly planted in the Marine's back to keep him on the floor.

Just as he's beginning to wonder how he's going to pull out his phone to call for back while immobilizing their suspect, the door to Interrogation flies open, revealing Gibbs. There's a split second where they all freeze and stare at each other, where Tony can see the worry and the desperation in Gibbs' eyes, where he watches a soul-deep exhalation escape the older man at the sight of them uninjured and in charge of the situation. He doesn't stop to dwell on it, just as he hadn't tried – is still afraid to try – to figure out the expression in Ziva's eyes as he'd ducked to avoid the chair.

"Guy just went crazy, Boss," he explains and, in an instant, Gibbs takes control over the situation.

He scrambles to his feet as Gibbs reaches to help hold down the Marine, the relief flooding his system leaving him lightheaded and vaguely dizzy. After sounding the alarm and calling for medical aid, he allows himself to slump against the wall, an arm cradling his aching ribs as he tilts his head back against the solid surface behind him, counting each breath in an attempt to slow his pulse and quit panting. And, as the tingles of adrenaline in his hands and feet begin to fade, coherent thoughts beyond the immediacy of the moment make themselves known and he wonders about his own mental state.

After all...

What sane person's instinct is to head toward danger with open arms, begging for a beating, while everyone else runs in terror?


End file.
